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I was whistling through Worcester this past week with nothing but my Chevy and a few road beers to keep me company. You didn't seem interested in what I was running from, and the good lord Jesus Christ knows I'm running from a great many things. I only had 93 cents to pay for my 32 oz. Mountain Dew/Gatorade mixture. You said it was fine, you could just grab the last penny from the tray. A silent tear rolled down my cheek as this was the first kind thing anyone has done for me since I lit out from Reno. You told me to have a nice day, and I nearly started weeping openly beautiful housewives searching dating Saint Paul right there. I didn't have the emotional strength to stay, so I left. Traveling north, looking for somewhere a man like me might be able to hide where his past won't think to look for him.
Anyway, I had a full beard, short hair and a knowing look in my eye. You were wearing a Cumberland Farms polo shirt and had blonde hair and eyes black as a doll's eyes which seemed to peer into my very being. I'm going to start in on this carton of cigarettes. If I don't hear from you before I finish it, I reckon I'll just continue on heading north and I don't believe anything but you could bring me back.